Just Let Me Love You (Judge Me Not #3)(60)

“Hi, Essa,” Professor Walsh says cordially while pretending to step out of my path.

He remains in the way, of course. Still, I manage to slip around him. He nonetheless stays with me, turning and watching me the whole time.

Ugh. It is so hard not to snipe, “Get the hell out of my face, you f*cking douche bag.”

Since I lack the courage to say such a thing, I hold my tongue.

But when Professor Walsh reaches out and touches my arm, halting my progress, I twist from his grasp and snap, “Really?” I raise both brows and take a step back. “Please tell me you did not just lay your hand on me.”

“Now, now,” Douche Bag Walsh says in a sickly, patronizing tone. “There’s no need for such a venomous retort. I don’t know what Haven has told you—”

“Try everything,” I interrupt.

Haven and her thirty-five-year-old professor had a three-month fling. It was all hot and heavy, not to mention illicit as hell, until he ended it in a not-so-nice way.

Concern fills the professor’s light-brown eyes as he taps his foot and stares at me. It’s not concern for the girl whose heart he’s broken. It’s purely concern for his own ass. Oh, the trouble he could get into for f*cking one of his students.

“Don’t worry,” I say, just to get him to stop staring and, hopefully, go away. “Haven won’t let me go to the disciplinary board, and God knows she’ll never do it herself, so your secret is safe.”

The professor, more confident as soon as he hears I plan to keep my mouth shut, lazily brushes back a lock of wispy, dirty-blond hair that’s fallen to his forehead. He’s boyishly handsome, and this is a move he’s obviously perfected.

Too bad it does absolutely nothing for me.

Undeterred, he says in a low voice, “Everything that happened between me and Haven Shaw was consensual. She’s twenty-two years old, Miss Brant. Last time I checked that makes her an adult.”

I feel like screaming in his smug face. “You were her freaking professor, prick. Not only did you violate school policy, but you violated her when you let her fall in love with you and then callously walked away.”

But there’s no point in lashing out. Haven is still hung up on the guy, shady though he is. She doesn’t want him to get into any trouble. And someone might hear me if I start going off in defense of my friend. The halls are empty, but many of the classrooms are full.

So I don’t say a thing. I do, however, scowl at the man. And then I walk away, leaving him standing in the middle of the hall. I feel his eyes on me, probably checking out my ass. His hooking up with Haven wasn’t some fluke. It’s common knowledge that Professor Walsh has a thing for college-age girls. Until Haven, he was known as a one-and-done kind of guy. But he was really into Haven, for a while…until he wasn’t.

It’s really no surprise he liked her as much as he did in the early days of their fling. Men find Haven irresistible. And why wouldn’t they? The girl is gorgeous. She is far prettier than I am. Haven is tall, with a model-like body. I am short, not super thin. Haven has big, expressive aquamarine eyes and shiny, raven-black hair. I have boring hair that can’t even decide what color it wants to be. Some days it appears light brown, other days it’s more of a dark blonde shade. Not that I pay much notice. I usually just pile the long, unruly tresses up in a sloppy bun, or twist the mess into a ponytail.

I’m not saying I’m unattractive. I just don’t really stand out in a crowd. Not like Haven does.

Despite all she has going for her, Haven is far from conceited. She’s unassuming and genuine, loyal to the core. That’s why I maintain that she didn’t deserve to be treated the way Professor Walsh treated her. He used her for sex, strung her along, and then unceremoniously dumped her with no explanation two weeks ago.

My ire at the jerk professor escalates. By the time I reach the stairs, I am smacking my hand down on the dark wood railing in anger. Quickly, I spin around, intent on stomping back and having one last word with the guy.

But he’s long gone.

“Chickenshit,” I murmur.

Sighing, I step over to a wall and lean back against it. There’s a classroom a few feet away, in session. Leaning my head back, I listen to the soothing murmur of voices, thus allowing myself a few minutes to calm down.

Soon, I am relaxed. I also find I am fully engaged in listening to the lecture. Not surprising since the instructor, her voice light and feminine, is speaking on a subject I find fascinating—the role of fate in our lives. I walk over to the door and press my ear up against it.

“Wonderful,” she says. “You’ve all shared some great insights. But now that we’ve dissected Shakespeare’s use of fate in Romeo and Juliet and Macbeth, I have a question for you, a question regarding your lives.”

The class titters, she chuckles, and I step back to where I’m able to lean against the wall. After a minute or two, I slide down to a seated position.

“What I want to know,” the instructor continues, “is who here believes that real lives—our lives—are influenced by fate?”

“I do,” I whisper. At least I think I do.

The professor calls on someone in the class, a girl. She responds, “I believe all of our lives are influenced by fate. And I firmly believe in destiny.”

“Is there a difference?” the instructor questions.